


Regeneration

by ThereminVox



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 08:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15703455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox





	Regeneration

 

 

 

It was a typical Wednesday heat wave in Montana. Summers were as intense in temperature as Winters and the moist feel of Rook’s philtrum is met by an eager tip of tongue as she slouches in the patio chair, wearing an uncomfortably drenched plane-print bikini. Just a few feet away, her squinty gaze was rewarded with the view of sweat glistening on taut expanse of honeyed flesh. Muscles rippled in tandem with noon’s ardent rays and Rook’s eyes were glazed as she stares at the peculiar sight, goofy smile plastered in place.

 

 

John Seed, of all people, was currently occupied with issuing mechanical expertise on Nick Rye’s plane. In the sweltering 97 degree humidity, his hangar seemed to morph into a mirage, with only a repair torch serving as the main coruscating source of light. Something more akin to the gates of Hades where the man in question, clad only in a welding helmet and uncharacteristic pair of frayed dad jeans secured by logger suspenders, was the infamous Charon incarnate.

 

 

Rook watches in lazed fascination, eyelids languishing by verging qualms of heatstroke.

 

 

_All aboard Rye & Sons Express, _she slurs to the sultry air, lips murmuring as a soft prayer in almost Bacchic haze.

 

 

A short burst of breath, as a near pained chuckle, is all she can offer as her mind eases towards daydreams about the Sapphire man being that elusive ferryman of the Underworld, only being seen at stroke of quietus, rowing an empty boat, cloaked body adorned in reaper attire, with one taloned hand trailing a lamp at the vessel’s forefront. 

 

 

She thinks she’d still want him even if he were an _actual_ imp.

 

 

Even though it currently felt like the Horned Red Man had decided to change residence to terrestrial avenues, she decided it wouldn’t be so bad traversing the Styx with his rimy, handsome rivaling twin. Content by getting lost in this dazed reverie, Rook doesn’t have time to register a hulking shadow (and soothing, if not brisk, shaft of wind that accompanied) hovering above her slumped form. Her eyes were still closed, stray strands of hair matted to her forehead as the vague shade was nearing in intimacy, shallow breaths tickling her nose and chin as the responding goose flesh prompted her to flick her eyelids open to an attractively damp face, framed by mussed hair with aqua blue eyes fixed and unblinking towards her own.

 

 

John’s arms were secured on either side of the chair, firm grip threatening to give way to its plastic fixture and as she finally begins to remember where she is, she can’t help but tear her eyes away from the lingering intensity to appreciate all his tattoos beared in unadulterated glory, peeking a bit to the side to relish the veiny lines of his slender yet strong forearms before sparing a wayward glance to a heaving stretch of sculpted chest and defined abs where, surprisingly, the tiny trace of a forming happy trail greeted her wandering eye.

 

 

His suspenders were hanging off to either side of his thighs now and Rook felt the start of a blush emerging at the notice of his jeans slipping just low enough along the hips to reveal a hint of commando preference.

 

 

“Ah, kitten. What are we going to do with you, hm?”, he asks in a mocking tone, head tilting to the side, with the product of his exertion dripping from an unkempt beard across her exposed stomach, granting an admittedly teasing trickle of mercy by Apollo’s hand.

 

 

“Letting me do _all_ the work while you lounge around like a pampered swimsuit model? Tsk, tsk. And you call yourself a Southern girl. As a certain corrupt politician once said, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen!’”

 

 

His satin voice lilted at the edges as his hands relinquished their hold on the chair, moving instead to press divine sparks of warmth against her upper thighs, calloused thumbs positioned inches away from the apex while ghosting along the fringe of her bikini bottom.

 

 

“Although, I think”, he whispers, head drifting to close the gap between to lick a stripe along her cheek, savoring the salty twang, “the kitchen is just right for the heat.“

 

 

At that, he pulls away in abrupt fashion, leaving her fully awake and frowning at the sudden loss of touch. She sighs then, palms molding against the imprints he’s left, pushing up to stand while suppressing a grimace at the inevitable swamp ass she’s cursed on herself. In the next moment, she surprises the man’s mellow expression of endearment at her adorably fatigued falter, spontaneously flopping into him with arms wrapping limp yet insistent around his torso, fingers skimming lightly along numerous scars and lacerations, cheek pressed against his chest, seizing a decadent moment to enjoy the steady rise and fall.

 

 

John tenses only briefly before enveloping her in a snug embrace, chin lowering to rest against the top of her head as the Sun became dimmed by a passing cloud, offering a generous instant of serenity with only the muted susurrus of swaying trees, singing birds, and syncing breaths filling the empty spaces of sound.

 

 

“Were you really being sexual with what you said before or are we actually going to get some grub because your girl is starving.”

 

 

A low rumble vibrates from his throat to her forehead as he utters a faint chuckle.

 

 

“So you’re my girl now.”

 

 

Rook could practically sense his lips inch up in that signature smirk as he doesn’t state it as a question.

 

 

“ _Yes.  
_ Now is that for here, or to go?”

 

 

The outline of his lips tickle the tendrils atop her head as he shifts to press a smile into the soft texture, planting a small kiss of tenderness into her thoughts.

 

 

“Depends…   
Is forever still on the menu?”

 


End file.
